CHAPTER 17
Jacqueline
It was raining in Brussels the day of my first ultrasound. In the US, it was Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the year. Despite the dreary weather, I sang as I got ready. Laurent had taken the day off to accompany me.
We were in the waiting room but I was too excited to read any of the magazines I usually indulged in. Laurent was flipping through Première, a film magazine. Her office was in a beautiful maison de maître in Ixelles, decorated in soft browns with butterscotch accents and dark orange curtains. How many times had we sat here like this? But we’d never come this far. Our first ultrasound.
Dr. Cellier, wearing a white coat and sporting a new short haircut, opened the door to her office and waved us in. When I first came to Belgium, I was surprised at the simplicity of doctors’ offices. No nurses or office managers, receptionists or secretaries. Some doctors and dentists did use an outside billing service, but most did it all themselves. Here, when you called your doctor, you talked to your doctor.
It was all very easy, very humane.
I removed my skirt and panties and boots in the curtained-off area in the far corner of her office. I shivered as I hopped up onto the table. These old houses were wonderful, but despite central heating, they always let in a bit of the cold.
“So, how have you been feeling?” she asked.
“Better. No more nausea, which is a relief,” I said. “I like your hair.”
She smiled and patted the short bob. “I read the review in Télémoustique. Congratulations.”
“Merci.”
She adjusted her glasses. “But the nausea. It can come and go. It’s all very normal and different from one woman to the next.”
I lay down on the table and she squirted gel on my tummy. I flinched.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s cold.”
“No. It’s fine.” We were going to see our baby for the first time. Laurent grasped my hand, both of us intent on the magic screen.
“So, we will be looking for the heartbeat. We will see it and hear it. It will be very fast, which is normal,” she said.
Normal was good.
She smiled as she rolled the probe over my abdomen. A whooshing oceanic sound filled the air. Every cell in my body yearned toward the image that was soon to appear. So far, it was like bad black-and-white reception from a sixties television, grainy and indistinct.
“Hard to believe we are going to get to see a picture on that,” said Laurent. He remained laconic but I know he was as jumpy as I was.
“Here is your uterus. Looks good.” She kept rolling the probe back and forth. It seemed to take a long time. I tore my eyes from the screen, gave Laurent a smile, then looked at my doctor. A slight frown had appeared on her forehead.
Then, she stopped. I couldn’t hear anything but the whooshing. “I can’t really make out anything,” I said. I saw a small circle, lighter than the background, but that was all. No rapid boom boom boom, either.
She shook her head. “Un oeuf clair.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I said. This can’t be good.
“In English,” she said, “an empty amnion or sac. The gestational sac is there but there is no embryo.” She shook her head gently.
“Look again. There has to be a baby. All the tests were positive. Even you told us everything was fine at her last visit.” Laurent turned pale.
I was dizzy. “I had all the symptoms. Even the nausea. Did I do something wrong? Did I kill it? Look again, please?” The champagne. I should never have had the champagne. I should have stopped working. Rested.
“I’m sorry.” She switched off the ultrasound machine, then gently wiped the gel off my abdomen with a soft white towel. I couldn’t move. She tossed the towel in the hamper. “Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll discuss it in my office.” Her voice was gentle. “Take your time.”
“Thank you,” said Laurent. I had no voice.
He gathered me in his arms and held me. Wordlessly, he helped me down from the table and took me to the dressing area. Then he dressed me, like a doll. Panties, tights, my skirt. The zipper stuck at my waist, then slid up. Last came my boots.
He pulled a handful of tissues from the box on the small Deco table in the corner and wiped my face. I took them from him and blew my nose.
“Ready?”
I nodded. Dry-eyed and hollow, I let him lead me through the tall double doors. We sat in the two chairs facing Dr. Cellier’s desk. My file was open in front of her and she was writing something in her neat cursive. She looked up.
“What happened is”—she put down her pen—“that the egg was fertilized, but some condition made it stop developing. There can be many causes. Even a virus.”
“But that’s so cruel.” I was shaking. “I really was pregnant, right? I didn’t imagine it.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “It is cruel, but mostly, it’s Mother Nature’s way of elim . . . stopping a defective embryo. One of them, at any rate. But under no circumstances did you do anything wrong. Do you understand? There was nothing that could be done to change this.”
I nodded, not really believing her. Her words were a happy face sticker on a gunshot wound.
“We need to schedule a D&C as soon as possible. Monday?”
I stared at my nails. “When can I get pregnant again?”
“You have to wait for at least two months. You really should take the pill for two cycles.” She tapped her pen on the prescription pad on her desk.
“Quoi? The pill? But . . .” I was horrified.
“It’s best. It will help your body get back in order.” She slid a card across her desk. “Here is the name of a good therapist. You should see her, talk about what happened.”
About being a total failure? About my body betraying me? About having a womb so hostile it consistently refused to grow a baby? Talking would do no good. I’d deal with this the way I’d always dealt with everything. On my own. Therapy was for the weak.
She leaned forward over her desk. “There is a deuil, a grieving that must follow.”
“But what I really want is to start as soon as possible,” I said. I looked at Laurent. He was staring into space.
“I know. But you must follow the steps. It is important.” Her eyes were soft. “It is better to deal with the emotions.” She fluttered her fingers up and down her torso in the vicinity of her heart, as if emotions were butterflies.
“Docteur.” It was my turn to lean forward. “I really just need to get pregnant again. As soon as possible. It’s the only way for me. Unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“Unless there is something really wrong with me?”
“We’ve run many tests. So far, nothing has indicated that you could not have the baby you want. But . . .” she said.
“Yes?” Laurent found his voice.
“Maybe it is the stress.” She raised her eyebrows.
“But everyone has stress,” I said.
“Yes, and it affects different bodies in different ways,” she said.
“So what I need to do is stay calm?” I asked.
“Not as easy as that. What you two should do is forget about all this for a while.” She looked out the window, where, true to form, the Belgian sky continued to unleash its usual torrent of water. “Take a holiday. Go somewhere warm and sunny. With palm trees and a spa. Christmas vacation is coming up.”
“I’m going to Pennsylvania for Christmas.” But as I said it, I realized how impossible it was to make the trip.
Her face brightened. “Perfect. Being with family can be very therapeutic. Especially around the holidays.”
Right. She probably came from one of those perfect families where discord was something only the piano had. If it dared.
“I’ll see you on Monday.” She made a note on my chart. We all rose and she walked us to the door. “And please,” she said, “call Anne de Meyer. She is a friend and a very competent therapist.”
We left the warm cocoon of the house and stood looking at each other in the downpour. Laurent struggled with the umbrella, pulled me close, and led me to the subway station.
Black Friday. Whoever came up with that one?